


(26. Dark) / For the night is dark and full of terrors

by Mothfluff



Series: GO-ctober Prompts 2019 [26]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: 5+1 Things, Crowley rescues Aziraphale, Gen, Historical References, M/M, October Prompt Challenge, One Word Prompts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-26
Updated: 2019-10-26
Packaged: 2021-01-03 18:01:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,921
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21183635
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mothfluff/pseuds/Mothfluff
Summary: My attempts at an October Challenge, using the original Inktober prompts for drabbles.(Each prompt will be posted as part of a series, not chapters, so I can add tags/characters/ratings/trigger warnings for each instead of the whole she-bang)Prompt 26 - Dark“How do you always know?”They'd been drinking for a few hours now, after Crowley had very quickly agreed to the offered Thank You drink as he'd dropped Aziraphale off at the bookstore. They'd been catching up, so to say, and Crowley had sunk deeper and deeper on the sofa, and had a hard time understanding Aziraphale's sudden question.“Know what?”“About trouble.” Aziraphale was in his armchair, prim and proper and sitting up straight despite the alcohol, fidgeting with his glass. The night had revealed far more than Aziraphale would've ever expected, so finding out even more did not seem as daunting as it usually did. “You always know when I'm somewhere in trouble, and show up to get me out of it. How do you know?”





	(26. Dark) / For the night is dark and full of terrors

**Author's Note:**

> I tried to do a 5+1 thing, but it kind of didn’t work. Anyway. Here’s 5 times Crowley saved Aziraphale from trouble in the night, and 1 time Aziraphale returned to favour.

Lindisfarne, 792

“I would find a different monastery if I were you.”

The voice was deep, reverberating off the hallway around the church's courtyard. Aziraphale, whose head was still half-stuck in the prayer he'd just finished inside the building, whipped around to see Crowley, leaning against a pillar.

“What are you doing here? This is holy ground!”

“Apparently not.” Crowley lifted one foot and shook it. “Guess just outside the church doesn't count anymore. Luckily.”

Aziraphale, his monk's habit skirting along the ground, quickly made his way to the demon. The sound of his feet echoed just like their voices had, alone in the empty gardens at nighttime, as the other monks had already finished their last prayers and retired to bed. God knows what would've happened if any of them had discovered Crowley in here, and Aziraphale was sure to let him know-

“Again, you should find a different monastery.”

He'd not even opened his mouth to scold him yet before being interrupted, and all he could answer with was a short grumble.

“I'm quite happy here, thank you very much.”

“Maybe.” Crowley shuffled his feet on the ground with a sigh. “But Hell is definitely not happy with this place. You know. Spreading faith to Northcumbria. They're going to find a way to cause trouble soon, I suspect.”

“You _suspect_.”

Another sigh. “Alright, I _know_. It's not my assignment, but -” Crowley looked at him, and Aziraphale almost wanted to believe there was kindness in those eyes, just a tiny bit of softness and care. It wasn't that hard to believe. “Stay away from sea-side monasteries, angel. At least for a while. Find yourself a nice holy place in-land.”

He'd not given him time to answer before he turned and left. Aziraphale stood for quite some time, wringing his hands, not unlike they'd just been clasped during prayers. He wasn't quite sure if he should really follow the advice of a demon, as much as he wanted to. He stared into the darkness where Crowley had vanished, the cold wind from the seaside a small howl through the night.

A year later, hearing the distraught story of the viking raids from the travelling visitors in his monastery deep in the English country side, he was glad he had listened during that night.

Glencoe, 1692

“You have to leave. Now.”

Aziraphale was still blinking in confusion, after something – or rather, someone – had shook him awake from his simple beddings of a blanket over hay. He stared up into very familiar serpentine eyes, surrounded by an also familiar, yet puzzling, uniform. A few more blinks, and he realised it was one of the military. He'd seen it around in the past few days, on the soldiers lodging with the local Clan (which had put him out of a room to sleep in, very rudely, as he'd only stopped by on his travels anyway, following a previous invitation the last time he'd been in Scotland). He'd not seen Crowley amongst them, though. Truth be told, he'd never seen Crowley in any military's uniform, and it made him feel worse than even being woken up as rudely as he had been made him feel.

“What are you doing here in this outfit-”

“Who cares? You need to leave. Pack your stuff. There's a horse outside. Go to Edinburgh, or Glasgow, or whatever. Leave the Glen.”

“Crowley!”

He was almost out of the small, broken down cottage before Aziraphale could call him, but he stilled and turned around anyway.

“What's going to happen?”

The demon sighed, and averted his eyes. “Nothing you can stop, angel. Please, you need to leave. As fast as you can.”

And with that, he disappeared into the dark outside the house. Aziraphale followed him soon after, indeed finding a well-fed horse waiting for him, and dared to look back only once as he rode out of the valley. The sight of a familiar shape, dressed in all red, standing on top of a small hill, and the glint of golden eyes followed him all the way out, even as the night's darkness and fog enshrouded the rest of the Glen.

News of the massacre travelled fast, reached Edinburgh long before he did himself, and overhearing the angry rant of a drunken man in the inn he'd sheltered in made him realise that the demon had, once again, been his saviour.

London, 1888

“What are you doing here?!”

The voice of the woman was barely a hiss in the quiet street, but Aziraphale recognised it all the same – or maybe because of that. Crowley, her crimson hair in long, messy braids on his head, an almost dishevelled dress on her feminine curves, stared at him, and even the shades could not hide the anger in her eyes.

“This is no place for an angel to walk around at night.”

That much was true – the area was as dingy as its inhabitants, who were quickly milling past them, trying to get to whatever it was they called home before the darkness of night had completely taken over the streets.

“Some horrible things have been happening here lately-” Aziraphale tried to explain, but was shushed again by Crowley's hiss.

“Exactly! So you shouldn't be here at all!”  
“I was trying to help-”

“Help? You're going to get yourself murdered, gentleman's outfit or not!”

She wasn't wrong, and Aziraphale was this close to agreeing and leaving, but Crowley's appearance made him stop.

“Are _you_ trying to lure-”

“Never mind what I'm doing, angel. What you're gonna do is turn around, get a carriage, go home and not wander through the slums of London when it's getting dark anymore, alright?”

And with that, she'd turned the angel around, pushed him forward by his shoulders, and stared him down until he got into a carriage at the end of the street. He could feel her stare even as he drove on, the clomping of hooves echoing through the otherwise quiet night air.

The papers were full of the new murder next morning, barely a street away from where they'd met. Apparently Crowley had not been successful (or, in the eyes of Hell, maybe he'd very much been). Either way, Aziraphale was reminded again of the guardian demon he'd apparently acquired a long time ago.

Chicago, 1925

“You can't be serious, angel.”

The lady in a tassel-covered dress slid up onto the barstool next to him. Her red hair was laid in the most delicate curls around her face, and her hands held a cocktail glass and a cigarette holder as long and slender as her fingers.

“Never thought I'd find _you_ in a speakeasy. And then you go and pick this one.”

Aziraphale's hand cramped around the whiskey glass in his hand. He wasn't exactly against the prohibition – Upstairs was quite enamoured with it, too blinded by the whole abstinence thing to see the broiling underbelly of crime coming with it – but then again he also wasn't exactly against a nice glass of whiskey, or any other stiff drink he'd come to love in his years on earth.

“What's wrong with this speakeasy?” He tried to act nonchalant, his eyes decidedly not travelling down the frankly obscene cut of Crowley's dress.

“The mob's not too happy with the place.” Her voice was quiet, even though the place was so loud with celebrations and music Aziraphale had barely heard his own voice while ordering. She leaned forward to him just a bit. “I've heard they're planning something. Tonight. Maybe tomorrow. Either way, we really shouldn't stay for the party.”

And with that, she'd downed her drink and his, hooked an arm around his elbow, and masterfully steered him out of the hidden basement.

The cold night air hit his face with force – he'd barely had half of his 'whiskey', which he was certain now was anything but, and he could already feel its effect. How Crowley could drink that, plus her own cocktail, and still grin at him as if she'd had nothing but tea, was beyond him.

“Where to now, angel? I know some far better places, where you definitely won't get gunned down for enjoying some spirit.”

“I think I'd rather head home.” He swallowed, remembering the myriad times Crowley had swooped in at night to save him from something or other, thinking about what else might happen if they stayed out this night. Not thinking, though, what might happen if they stayed in.

“Good choice.” She patted his arm, which she'd held all the way down the street without him even noticing. “Lead the way.” They strolled the rest of the way in silence, Crowley's heels clinking away on the pavement, barely interrupted by other drunken couples passing them and hollering as they disappeared again into the dark of the night.

Crowley was still doing her hair the next morning (a night on the settee in Aziraphale's living room did not help with keeping her perfect hairdo) when Aziraphale opened the freshly-delivered newspaper, only to have a photograph of the bar he'd been sitting at yesterday stare into his face, covered in blood. Good choice, indeed.

London, 1941

“How do you always know?”

They'd been drinking for a few hours now, after Crowley had very quickly agreed to the offered Thank You drink as he'd dropped Aziraphale off at the bookstore. They'd been catching up, so to say, and Crowley had sunk deeper and deeper on the sofa, and had a hard time understanding Aziraphale's sudden question.

“Know what?”

“About trouble.” Aziraphale was in his armchair, prim and proper and sitting up straight despite the alcohol, fidgeting with his glass. The night had revealed far more than Aziraphale would've ever expected, so finding out even more did not seem as daunting as it usually did. “You always know when I'm somewhere in trouble, and show up to get me out of it. How do you know?”

Crowley shrugged. There were so many points to contest, so many reasons to lie, so many unsaid things he was never going to say. It was hard formulating an answer.

“I'm a demon. It's my job to know about shady business. I'm more wondering about how _you_ manage to stumble into trouble, without fail, every night I meet you.”

“I don't stumble- I mean- I'm not out looking for trouble, if that's what you mean.” Aziraphale protested, taking another sip. “Trouble just... finds me.”

And so did a certain demon, who was now staring him up and down with pulled down glasses, golden eyes searing into his skin (even as covered up as he was).

“If you say so, angel.”

“I do.” He cleared his throat, trying to clear away all these pesky thoughts, about Crowley in a church, Crowley at his side, Crowley with a bag full of books in his hand, Crowley coming to his rescue again and again and.... “Anyway, I feel I must thank you.”

“You really shouldn't.”

“I know. But you've been saving me from trouble for... as long as I can remember, I suppose.”

“No big deal.” Crowley shrugged again. “Not like I'm planning on it, you know. S'just happens.”

Aziraphale stared at his glass, empty for at least half an hour now, and wondered. About the many times the demon had shown up out of the blue, in the dark of the night, whispering some warning, pulling him out of harm's way, offering up ways to escape. About how little or how much he could've planned for all those times. About what it might mean if he had planned, had gone looking for him on purpose.

It was easier to refill his glass. There'd been enough revelations for tonight. Best to leave the rest in the dark for now, and think about them when he was clearer, and the sky outside brighter, and his sofa empty.

London, 2019

“_What are you doing?_”

Aziraphale's voice was stern, cold, _angelic _in that way that had caused humans to fear them for centuries. The demons' heads shot up, staring in complete shock at the glowing figure approaching in the darkness from the restaurant at the end of the road. He could barely manifest a weapon after dropping the takeout bag in his hands before they'd taken off, leaving behind the crumbled pile of black clothes and limbs underneath them on the street.

“Crowley!” Aziraphale's steps became even faster before he kneeled down next to him, pulling him up with more worry in his face than ever before, if that was possible.

“Angel.” Crowley answered, spitting out a bit of blood to the side. They'd not gotten that many punches in, luckily, but his glasses still sat broken across his nose, barely hiding the blue eye.

“I left you alone for five minutes!” He'd tutted at the demon pulling out a pack of cigarettes as they'd waited for their order. Now he wished he'd asked him to wait just a bit longer instead of ducking out of the restaurant for a quick smoke.

“Good thing you did, too. They were up for a fight, surprised you scared them away as quickly as you did.”

Aziraphale was already dabbing away the blood on his nose with a handkerchief. “We need to go home. We need to go home and set up some wards and-”

“Relax. They were just some thugs. Probably ran into me by accident, and decided to take a chance on the traitor.”

Aziraphale's look was scolding, icy. “We need to go home.”

Aziraphale almost brought out the full med-kit as soon as Crowley slumped down on the sofa. The takeout on the table would stay miraculously warm for another moment, just as it had sitting on the dirty street a while ago. He was far too busy to think about it as he poured disinfectant on some clean papertowels, dabbing it across Crowley's cheek. The demon hissed, but did not move (he was smart enough to know Aziraphale would pin him down if he had to).

“We should've gotten delivery.” He mumbled as he kept cleaning his face, scratched all over from being pushed into the pavement.

“Oh come on. Like we could've known that would happen. What, we're never gonna get takeout again just to avoid the tiny chance of being ambushed by some low-level idiot demons?”

“Isn't it your job to know about shady business? Did you not notice there were other demons around?”

Crowley looked at him, almost hurt (emotionally. He was clearly hurt physically). “I'm retired, angel. I don't do the whole shady business thing anymore.”  
“Right.” Aziraphale cleared his throat, only now realising how bad that had come across. “I guess trouble just found you instead of me this time.” He joked, trying to force a smile, failing. Crowley's was far more sincere.

“And you showed up to help me out of it this time. Guess we're even, then.”

“I really don't think scaring of some hoodlums one time makes up for the centuries of you saving my bum.”

“Yeah, probably not. Better repay me for that with other things.” He grinned as the papertowel swept past his chin one last time. Aziraphale thought of scolding him again, for not taking any of this serious, but decided to cave instead. He placed a soft kiss on his lip, careful not to touch the part where it had split.

“I fully intend to.”

They'd eaten their dinner by now (or rather, Aziraphale had), snuggled up on the couch, surrounded by soft lamp light as utter darkness crept in through the bookshop's windows, but Aziraphale's thoughts were still circling around the evening's happenings.

“Did you always feel this scared, too?” He mumbled, nestled against Crowley's chest, where he could feel the questioning 'Hm?'.

“When you showed up to save me. Or told me to get away.” He played with Crowley's fingers, interlaced with his own. “I was so scared seeing you on the ground like that.”

“Probably not. I didn't often catch you in the middle of it.”

“But you knew what could've happened.”

“Yeah.” Crowley freed one of his hands from Aziraphale's worried fidgeting to stroke through his hair. “That's why I made sure to get you away from it.” His voice was heavy, deeper than usual, and Aziraphale could read more in it than he'd said, more than he'd ever admit. He had been scared. He had been worried, each and every time. Scared that he might miss just one hint, one sign that could've brought him to the angel's side. Worried that maybe his warnings were not enough, that Aziraphale would be stubborn, that all his good intentions and help were for nothing this time. That he didn't guard him and save him well enough.

Aziraphale shuffled around, partly to properly hug him, partly to stare at him with as much adoration as he could possibly muster.

“You've always been there for me, haven't you.”

“Not like I could let you wander around at night alone. Earth can be a dangerous place for an angel.”

“Not if he has a guardian demon like you.”

Crowley barked out a laugh at that, scratching through white curls as Aziraphale laid his head down on his chest again.

The night outside would soon break into dawn, light rushing through the windows and into their quiet little space in the backroom. Aziraphale knew he wouldn't have to fear or worry about any news that would find him in the morning, like always, as long as his demon was by his side.


End file.
